Used to sit on roofs at night
by Zeiloo
Summary: John is Sherlock's best friend, isn't he? There's no reason for him to get jealous over Sherlock's other friend, right? Well, maybe someone should tell him that.


Used to...

"Where are you going?" John asked surprised as Sherlock came out of the bathroom, fully dressed.

They had just settled down after a hell of a run through (John was sure) the whole (bloody) London canalization following a triple murderer, who they had haunted for more than two weeks. Well at least they had finally caught their literally stinking thief.  
>Ponging like something that had died two weeks ago in a pool of his own residues they had proudly handed over their prey to Lestrade, who had (wrinkling up his nose) took some steps backward and had ordered (to Sherlock's amusement) Anderson and Donovan to take the thief in the police car.<p>

After a long shower John had seated himself in his favourite armchair, tea on the coffee table, book in his hands, telly on. A perfect, quiet evening waiting for him. He expected Sherlock to settle down on his sofa, too, taking his laptop to record his newest solved crime, like he always did. Sherlock had once showed him his countless amount of external hard drives he had stored away in his cardboards, full of information about everything he could need for cases. Criminal profiles, most common sorts of decipherment, old crimes... "Crimes often are similar to each other, like the limited minds of their causers are."  
>Well, the detective seemed to have other things on his mind for the night. He was dressed in this glorious, purple shirt of him, along with his well-fitting black suit. If he didn't always run around in fancy clothes like this, one would have thought he was heading to a extravagant party. Well, one had to take into account: firstly that Sherlock of all hated parties. Secondly, he didn't have friends who could possibly invite him to one. And lastly and most important: If Sherlock would actually go to a party, then it would be for the sake of a case. And if it were for a case, he would take John with him.<br>But he didn't pull the doctor out of the armchair and drag him along. Mysterious...

"Out. Obviously."

"Yet?"

"Yes. Problem?"

John sighed as he watched Sherlock put on his dark blue scarf, carefully taking the skull from the mantelpiece, and almost gently brushing off the dust from the bare bone, before heading to the door.  
>"Try not to show him to old women or children. You know Lestrade hates the troubling phone calls."<br>Sherlock snorted deprecatingly and gave his skull a quick glance, as to make sure he was dressed right for the evening.  
>"Lestrade knows by now it is me when those people call the police, telling them there is a weirdo talking to a skull. ...It's not as if he is dangerous or anything."<br>"The skull?"  
>"Of course the skull."<br>"I think they are more afraid of the person talking to him... And where exactly are you going with the skull?" John asked again. He wasn't curious at all costs, but as well as he knew Sherlock by now, this little madman would probably cause chaos at either way again and John was likely to rescue him. Or other people from him. Again. Like always. And it was better to know where he was going, in case there came a message from Sherlock, Lestrade or even Mycroft again.  
>"Don't worry." was Sherlock's answer. John noticed barely, that the curly haired man had not once looked at him after he had left the bathroom. His grey (or was it green? John could swear they were able to change colours) eyes were glued to his bony 'friend' the whole time.<p>

Within a blink he and his skull were out of 221b Baker Street.  
>Did the detective need some air and someone to talk? If so, John would have gladly taken the skull's position. They could have gone to Angelo's or something... Really. This bloody skull...<br>Sometimes Sherlock went out with his damn skull rather than with him. Stayed away the day, the night and he never told John where he was going. Or why. Maybe the skull was sometimes the better conversational partner. He didn't know. Maybe he was the Boogie man and liked scaring children with his friend... Or he was an actor, playing Hamlet at night on the stages.

It was late at night, when John heard the door opening. The detective were tiptoeing, obviously to not wake up him or Mrs. Hudson.  
>John never slept until he was home.<br>The rain crackled against the window. Surely he was soaked to the bones. He didn't bother to take an umbrella. (He seemed to have some grudge against those...).  
><em>Better bring him dry clothes and tea. Otherwise he will catch a cold again.<em>(And God knew, John never ever wanted to deal with a sick Sherlock again.)

When he stood in the doorway and saw Sherlock, he forgot the tea for a moment.  
>The detective sat in one of the chairs, fully dressed, the water still dripping from his now flat, in the light of the ingle shining dark hair. His ivory skin was lit up with the orange light of the fire. His long legs pulled to the body, the knees just six inches away from his chin. On the knees sat his skull. Illuminated by the fire shine. His grey eyes stared blankly into the two black holes.<br>Then he smiled a very tired smile. He closed his eyes and his head sunk back against the furniture, as if he wanted to rest. His pale, long hands reached for the skull and held it gently.

John didn't know how long he gazed at the detective. And just when he thought that the unmoving man had fallen asleep, his low voice woke him up: "How long are you intending to stare, John?".  
>His shoulder slipped from the door frame as he flinched and he stumbled some steps into the room.<br>"I... Er... just was wondering... You... want some tea?" the blond man stuttered clumsily, running a hand through the short hair, his eyes immediately down on the carpet. Embarrassment crawling up his back, he felt his ears and cheeks heating. He hated it, when Sherlock caught him staring.  
>There was an awkward silence and John wished he had stayed in bed, while he listened to his own heartbeat. So loud, he was sure Sherlock could hear it and that's why he didn't say anything. His eyes flickered up on and off quickly just to get a picture of Sherlock still sitting motionless in his former position.<br>"That would be nice." The other finally murmured quietly, almost whispering. His lips were the only thing that has moved. John's lowered eyes turned to him again, allowed to stare again for the sake of answering him. He still sat there, unmoving, eyelids closed softly.  
>"John."<br>"Um, yes... What?"  
>"The tea."<br>"Yeah. The tea." The doctor blinked and shook the head, before he broke the gaze and headed to the kitchen, to set the kettle on.

"You... don't want to change clothes? You're soaked, you know." He put the cuppa next to Sherlock on the coffee table. First, the detective didn't react, than he nodded slightly and opened his colour-changing eyes. They wandered back to his friend (the dead one) and his lips curled into this tired, heartbreaking smile.

With a flowing move he rose from the chair, the skull in his hands. Leisurely he paced through the living room, avoiding the rubbish on the floor in his feline, elegant manner and than wandered off to his bedroom.

After half an hour John didn't expect him to come down any more.  
>With a wearily look to the now cooled down tea on the table and his own empty mug, he got up and made his way to the stairs.<p>

_Wonderful. Keep me awake, make me worry and then wander off with this bloody skull without a word. I love you, too, _John thought wearily with a hint of dry amusement. He long ago gave up to understand him and his actions and due to the fact that he was a very patient man, he didn't even bother to get pissed because of him any more. Well, most of the time.

When his steps crossed Sherlock's bedroom door, he stopped for a second and listened to any sounds. (Just to make sure everything was okay.) To his surprise he could hear the steady stream of rain a bit too clearly. Frowning he knocked on the door. (Did this idiot-detective open the window again, while it still rained cats and dogs?). When there came no answer, John gently pushed open his door and peaked in the room. It was alight, but no one was inside. Confused John stepped in and his eyes fell upon the open window. The curtains swayed a little with the wind and rain was running down the sill.  
>He wasn't... was he?<br>With two steps John reached the window, leaning out and turning his head up. The rain was cold and disturbing, plastering down on his face, while he looked, eyes narrowed, up to the roof. Two long legs dangled from the eaves.  
>He was.<br>John let out one hell of a sigh and closed his eyes for a moment. He should leave him up there. He should go to bed. Sherlock didn't ask for company. In fact he had pretty nice company from his beloved bony friend.  
>With a muffled sound John climbed out of the window (he was getting to old for this...) and after a deep breath he jumped to the (bloody) slippery ladder left to the window. "Damn..." he hissed, clinging to the wet cold steel for a moment. He didn't dare to look down, while he slowly climbed up the ladder. The moment he reached the rooftop, he was soaking wet and shivering.<br>He wanted to glare at Sherlock, when the detective came into sight (even thought of pulling on one of his ungodly long legs to startle him a bit) but he couldn't. He just hoisted himself up to the roof, laid down next to Sherlock for a second to gain breath again, before he lifted his body up and sat next to him. The rain crackled down steadily, the water flowed next to them from the roof into the rain drain. It was dark and cold and wet.  
>John needed some time until his breath and heartbeat calmed down. Sherlock didn't move at all. He stared into the night, the lights of the city reflecting in his silvery eyes, his so called 'friend' resting on his lap (getting nuzzled from the detective). The ex-soldier watched him out of the corner of his eyes for a while. It was dark, but the street lights and the full moon gave enough light for John to see his face. John would never forget this expression. Whatever insults he wanted to throw at him for making him climb up the roof in the rain at a time like this, he couldn't move his tongue any more.<p>

At some point the rain lessened. (Even his underwear was soaked) His fingers numb from the cold. He couldn't feel his nose or ears any more. Sherlock's shoulder had at some point reached his and he could hear his breath near his ear.

"We used to sit on roofs at night."  
>His voice was a dolce whisper.<p>

John didn't have to ask, who he meant be 'we'. His pale fingers were wrapped gently, almost protectively around his dead friends head, stroking it now and then unconsciously, staring into the clouded sky. His eyes were far away, captured in old memories.

...

Next day, both inhabitants of 221b Baker Street laid in their beds. Ill.  
>Sitting in the rain all night on the draft roof didn't do them any good.<p>

And there was one blond doctor who tossed and turned around in his bed asking himself to whom this skull had once belonged to. A family member? A colleague? A companion? A friend? Or more?

_'Used to sit on roofs at night'!_ _Sitting on roofs at night... tz. And what did I do just last night with you? Getting one hell of a chill just so you're not alone on this bloody roof. Oh wait, what am I talking about? You have your skull of course! Your best friend being a lifeless, bloody-__ Oh great, bravo, John... You're jealous of a skull. You should stop that._

Next time Mycroft would visit him (best when Sherlock was not around) he would take the chance to ask him about this bally skull.


End file.
